Changes
by rhetoricfemme
Summary: It's turning out to be one hell of a life. Just when Jean believes he's had all that he can take, he's called away to the infirmary. Part One of Four.
1. Chapter 1

I don't own Attack on Titan.

* * *

Any other time, and he would have debated the probability. He would have sounded off his absolute doubt, the skepticism flying off the tip of his tongue. Now, he sat there, hunched over and undeserving of being at this bedside.

He'd been so sure. Coming across what could only have been a corpse, the wretchedly disfigured remains of a once familiar and dear human being… It had caused his heart to pour.

Too pale. Torn apart, all confusing angles and scented by death, and the bewildering way in which the wound somehow appeared cauterized.

It all begged the question of how. How long ago had it happened? How long could that kind of pain and its accompanying fright endure?

How long had Marco been alone before he'd died? How long had he been made to lie alone, slumped over in an alley until Jean had gotten there?

No, there had been no room for argument in his mind. And so, setting aside the shock and the grief, Jean accounted for his friend. His name is—was—Marco Bodt. He belonged to the 104th Training Squadron, and now he was dead. He'd confirmed as much before trailing off, unable to stick around and watch as the body be peeled off the ground and carted to the impending pyre.

Then, there had been Annie. Seeing her approach slowing from the corner of his eye, she came to stand alongside him in front of the fire.

"You should go to the infirmary."

Narrowed eyes scanned the flames as they crackled and reached skyward. Refusing to look away, he struggled against the moot endeavor of distinguishing Marco's rising ashes from the others. Sentimentality was currently overpowering logic as his brain insisted that somehow, Marco's ashes would stand out from all the rest.

"Can't right now." He answered. "I'm reminding myself what happens if I get outrun or too low on fuel."

"Jean," She does her best not to spit out the name. "It wasn't a suggestion."

Glancing down at her, he reminds himself that everyone else here is also continually losing someone or something they cannot imagine living without.

"Go to the infirmary." She repeats, "Bed number seven."

One final glance toward the funeral pyre, this time focusing on the living faces surrounding the open casket of flames. There was no telling when the next sendoff would be, or which side of the heat any of them would be on.

Exhaling angrily, he pivoted on one heel and set on his way. Someone apparently needed his assistance, and so he made his way toward the next destination at bed seven.

.

If the streets and alleys stank of death, then the infirmary reeked of vomit, chemicals and depressing incapacitation.

Three stories tall, the infirmary was a sturdy brick affair designed to stand apart from the surrounding buildings. Stepping through the front door, Jean found the place a ridiculous contradiction. Just one more place for pain to dominate, where patient morale quavered somewhere between prayers for recovery and a complete loss of hope.

Then, there was the medical team. Uncertain as to whether they were demons or saints; doctors and nurses hustled back and forth, delicate smiles fixed onto their otherwise worn faces. Depending on the company, their voices emanated between curiosity, comfort, and encouragement. Regardless, their comparably upbeat disposition set them apart—Jean had decided—not necessarily for the better.

_Christa said something once, didn't she? That even with all the terrible things they see, that even with all the casualties, they're learning exactly what the human body can take. But still. If you're going to treat me, there had better not be a smile on your face…_

A nervous hand ran through his hair, and he walked on whilst keeping his eyes close to the floor. His vision deviated only long enough to catch sight of the number situated at the end of each passing bed.

_Four… Don't listen to the moaning. You don't hear it…_

_Five… What is that dripping?_

_Six… It's too quiet right here._

_Seven…_ Heart beating wildly in his chest, he could taste the copper in the back of his throat.

"Marco?"

All patches and bandages, his right arm was missing. Still too pale, but no longer that macabre demonstration of the ravages of death.

_You were dead. You had to be!_

Rounding onto the left side of the bed, no longer caring about what may or may not be spilled across that floor, Jean's hand gently rests over top of Marco's. Head buried into the crook of his elbow, he muffles the still too loud apologies that he knows Marco cannot hear.

"What the hell is going on?!"

His sobs unintentionally garnered unwanted attention, bringing a rather young looking nurse to the bedside.

"You must be Jean."

Wiping his eyes before meeting her gaze, he nods slowing in reply, eyes begetting sorrow and confusion.

"I left him there. I thought he'd died."

Shaking her head quietly, she smiled. "Not dead, but close."

Upon closer examination, Jean could only shake his head, as even now some things just were not quite the same. He found little comfort in the rise and fall of Marco's chest, as the vision of charred vertebrae was all his mind would permit him to see. The full head of black hair, matted from days of neglect, made a sickening frame for the right side of his face that remained mostly patched and hidden.

But his arm… His arm had been gone, and remained gone.

"Tell me happened to him."

She lifted her shoulders into a shrug, her expression apologetic, but otherwise unexplaining. "All I can tell you is what he's been treated for, which includes a severed limb and extensive burns across the right portion of his body. Blood transfusions, skin grafts, and sedatives, too."

"Will he—" Annoyed as he choked on his own cries, Jean spoke despite himself. "Is he going to be okay?"

"He'll walk out of here eventually, if that's what you're asking."

_That's not even half of it. But it's a start._

Turning back toward Marco, he lowered his head onto his arms, thankful that the nurse understood their conversation to have come to an end. Waiting for her to be out of earshot, he carried on in whispers.

"I'm so sorry, Marco."

If he only watched that one half of his face, focused on the feel of Marco's hand beneath his own… But then, how could he not pay attention to the rest of him? No. There was no ignoring the peaceful upturn to only one side of Marco's mouth as he slumbered. Or that there could be no preference as to which hand to hold, as there was now only one.

He stared with purpose, but did not mourn; designating this time to absorb what had become the new reality. That had been Marco's specialty—assessing and accepting with only a second's notice, while somehow managing to bring everyone else along with him.

What would this do to him?

Who could afford to lose a such a guy? Especially now?

"Marco." Jean spoke, drawing on someone else's strength to fortify his words. "I'm taking your advice. I'm going with the Scouting Legion. Not the military police."

Silence, but comfort in the consistent movement of that bandaged chest.

Shaking his head, Jean groaned. "What the hell is this, Marco?"

Thoughts ran through him, one after another, exploding and collapsing inside of his head. Silently keeping vigil, his rested his forehead against the side of this pathetic excuse for a bed.

Close to dosing off himself, his head shot up as there came a twitch from beneath his hand. Eyes darting upward, his expression grew incredulous as Marco, once so still he'd been rendered lifeless, began to stir.

"Jean…" The name rattled out of his mouth, dry and hoarse.

"Marco! Shh. Just wait—"

"I was wrong."

_What?_ "It's alright, Marco." Raising his free hand in the air, he hoped it would be enough to flag down a passing doctor or nurse.

"I'm sorry." Lingering effects of some narcotic or another were pushing clarity down. Still Marco worked to better grasp at the hand he could feel above his own while struggling for words he needed to say.

"I'm sorry, Jean."

"What the hell? No. You're good now, Marco. Everything will be okay." How he managed to smile at such a time, he would never know.

"Don't lie, Jean." He slurred. "It's not how I thought."

"We'll talk about that some other time."

Finally , he noticed the same nurse from before quickly headed their way.

"I'm glad, though. Scouting Legion will be better."

"You heard that?"

"Hm?"

Jean's attention turned toward the nurse, who now gently removed his hand from Marco's. She smiled sweetly for the two of them as she turned Marco's wrist upward in search of a vein.

"Hear what, Jean?"

"Oh… A few minutes ago. I didn't think you'd hear, but I mentioned the Scouting—" The sentence trailed off, abandoned as Jean followed the movements of the nurse. "Hey. What are you giving him?"

"This," she answered slowly, while tending to the syringe now embedded in Marco's arm, "is to help your friend sleep."

Brows knit in anger, his concern meshed with a not entirely slow-building rage. But, he reminded himself, Marco was still there.

"Marco, I'll be here as long as they let me be."

Damn drug. He'd had him, tired but alert, if only for a few minutes. _Please, not yet!_

"I won't leave you again."

"Jean… I knew after that first time."

"Knew what?"

"Not the military police."

"Yeah, yeah."

"Jean…" Drugs administered, the nurse had quite deliberately relinquished Marco back to Jean's grasp, much to his surprise. Lacing their fingers together, he could feel Marco give a squeeze.

"Sorry." Lost again to the opiate, the pressure between their fingers melted away, causing Jean to grip harder.

Drawing himself upward, he blinked back the tears that now threated to spill down his face, only to find himself facing questions from the still lingering nurse.

"Leaving already?"

"I have orders. If I don't leave now, I won't be able to come back."

Looking past him, gazing onto Marco, she made a small noise that resembled acknowledgement.

"If you're wondering, it's only because he kept calling out for you that I knew your name."

Crimson heat crept up his neck. It was a sensation for which Jean neither had time nor the inclination to dissect. Dammit, wasn't it enough for him to simply acknowledge? To understand?

"Everyone loves Marco." He explained to the nurse, as if it would conjure some sense of priority to make him better. "They listen to him."

"You should go. Come back when you can, and don't worry. He'll be out of it for a while."

"Yeah, that's another thing. He _just _woke up! So why?"

"For now, his vitals are stable and his needs have been assessed."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Jean? Have you ever been a burn victim? Have you ever been near one?"

Sharp words and a near-condescending tone were enough to quiet him long enough to hear her out.

"The next time that bandage comes off, it'll be to peel away any number of layers of dead skin. That's to stave off further infection of the wound. Severe burns are considered one of the worst pains recovering patients can endure." She explained carefully, enunciating each of her words with care and importance. "Now look out that window, and look at where we are."

It had been Jean's plan to leave in the same manner in which he'd arrived: eyes directed straight onto the harrowingly disgusting floor.

Allowing him a moment of contemplation, the nurse regained his attention only by gently tugging at his arm.

"Don't worry about him. We don't waste resources on the ones who won't survive."

"Is that meant to be comforting? So you let them suffer?"

"No…"

"Oh."

"At any rate, Marco gets to live. And that's something you get to know."

One hand rested impatiently at his waist while the other rubbed vigorously at the back of his neck.

"Yeah." Meeting her gaze, this apparently straight-forward nurse maintained a too-personal level of eye contact, the audacity of which prompted Jean to stare right back.

"Before you go, Jean, let me ask you something."

"What is it?"

"Are you able to tell just by looking, who the real enemy is?"

Having finally earned the entirety of Jean's curiosity and attention, she nodded politely and began to walk away. The last he heard from her was that he could expect Marco to be awake anywhere between six to eight hours from now.

From the corner of his eye, Jean could see the sunshine framing the infirmary's wide open door. There came a sudden tug of anxiety as he realized how soon he would need to go.

In front of him, Marco laid quietly at rest, that same half a smile turning up his lips. How was it possible to appear simultaneously disturbed and peaceful? Much like any other flurried set of emotions, Marco had achieved it for Jean.

He made his way back to the bed one last time, holding fast to Marco's hand and whispering into his one good ear.

"Fuck, Marco. I don't even know, but I'm going with the Recon Corps. I trust you."

Squeezing as tight as he dare, Jean steadied himself against the pit in his stomach that would not stop growing, looking toward Marco, instead.

"I'm coming back, Marco. And you sure as hell better be here when I do."

With a deep breath, Jean slipped his hand away from Marco's. Eyes down, refusing to look back, he followed the trail of light that led to the outside door.

* * *

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::waves:: Thanks for reading! This is my first fic for Shingeki no Kyojin, and I have no clue whether or not it will be my last. I loved writing this, though. That, and it made me nostalgic in that I had that new-to-this feeling of entering something new, and being right back at square one.

I've been loving the hell out of various SnK fanart for quite some time, and usually that's enough for me. Traipsing into the fic, though... Just couldn't help myself.

If you're so inclined, please let me know what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

I don't own Shingeki no Kyojin.

* * *

Warm air filtered in through the raised windows, the breeze most prominent to those laid up closest to the infirmary's wide open door.

Seven beds in, Marco does not bother to sit up, and settles for feeling the draft rustling through his recently washed hair. It had been that nurse. The one who kept him somewhere in the realm of comfort; who occasionally made remarks about his friend Jean, whose presence he could recall seeing only once since being admitted to the hospital.

He could only assume her to be an angel of death as he was made to bide time in what could only be some kind of stopover on his way to Hell.

He'd only really seen her twice, perhaps. But then, three days in this bed, and the past several hours had been his longest stint of consciousness, at best. In here, that was consistent enough. Her tone carried a sense of familiarity, indicating that she'd likely seen him through his worst. From this point on there would be less sedatives and more pain as he was made to recover.

Soon enough, he would be returned to the world.

His mind taunted him, wanting to know if being discharged would be worth it. To what end? What options did he have left? Service was no longer a possibility. A one-armed soldier was of no use to anybody. Staring blankly at the ceiling, Marco could not think about the military police even if he'd tried.

Lying in silence, he could feel his body fusing itself back together. Beneath the gauze wrapped across his face, an unsettling feeling of incongruity ate away at his sanity.

Overhearing the quizzical assessment of one doctor, he'd gathered that his wounds were a matter of inconsistency. Physicians would peel away layers of once perfect gone dead, only to find immaculately healed epidermis underneath.

So it had been for three days. It was difficult to keep up, another doctor had mentioned, as Marco's body seemingly could not decide between living and dying. There had been no discussion regarding the irregularity of Marco's body recovering swiftly, in the first place.

Why couldn't it have ended in town, alone in the alley? Back then, there had been little to no time to assess the situation, and he'd known precisely what to do. In the center of absolute mayhem, he'd thought it fortunate to come across the completely abandoned alley. The isolation would prove useful in what was to come after the interior of the silver ring tore into his flesh.

And then.

It required no difficulty to recall what he could only describe as boiling from the inside out; wrought with confusion as the pain coursing through his body became grossly disproportionate to what he'd been told to expect.

It was unclear to him how he'd survived, but was certain that it had far less to do with his own stamina, and everything to do with the injection he'd discreetly received the previous week. Marco scanned each face that passed by. _That_ doctor was nowhere to be found.

Had Annie, Bertholdt, or Reiner experienced the same?

At the time, he'd thought nothing of it—any of it. Not the fact that he'd been sent to Dr. Yeager alone, nor the fact that he'd not received any medical supervision regarding this uncharted endeavor. At least, not since the inception of the program, which had been some time ago.

_Lying here like this is just irony. Eventually someone is going to come here and find me._

The sound of reprieve was headed his way as a certain nurse's footsteps headed toward Marco's direction. Within seconds, her pasted on smile hovered above his bed, informing him of a special visitor.

There was no lightness in Marco's heart, no pleasant sensation in his remaining hand, as he could already make out the domineering height of the man who stood behind her.

Gathering his remaining strength, he exhaled and presented the man with the best salute he was capable of giving.

"Good afternoon, Commander Erwin."

Nodding solemnly, Erwin returned the salute. His expression was not so hard as to not recognize the pain and energy Marco's willingness was costing him over a mere salute. Nearly anyone else, he acknowledged, would likely have not bothered.

A bleak end weighing on his mind, Marco ventured to set himself right with at least this one still-respectable man before it became too late.

"Commander… Sir, I—"

"Have something you'd like to tell me?"

The promise of death had been on the table well before day one. Marco had accepted that truth from the beginning, even personifying it whilst lying for days in that trash-strewn alley.

There was no comfort in survival when it was a stall, at best. Even now, as he was certain to be called out for his questionable loyalties, there remained the certainty that uncompromising death was near. Only at this point, Marco was no longer certain what it was he'd be dying for.

"I'm not here to condemn you, Marco. In fact, I'm certain that I have a better grasp of the situation than you do."

He dared not open his mouth, instead allowing the commander to have the floor. Comprised of equal parts integrity, strategy and mortality-inducing actions, Erwin Smith understood better than most people the need for eccentric measures in times of extreme crisis.

"You've been lied to, Marco. And were set to die for it."

He swallowed hard, the commander's appearance massive and blurred out of his one good eye. Sucking in his breath, Marco worked not to keep the slur out of his voice.

"At this point, I'd figured as much, sir."

"If you're willing, it doesn't have to be in vain."

Marco looked up, having previously been eyeing a steadier focal point toward the edge of his bed. His expression betrayed him as overly eager, perhaps even hopeful. Steadying his gaze, he looked Commander Erwin in the eye.

"What I'm asking you now is whether or not you have enough loyalty left in you to die for humanity one last time."

.

Cloud after unrelenting cloud of dust wafted up in front of him, leaving grime clinging to his boots.

_When is it ever going to rain here?_

At least the wind had given it a rest. Kicking up dust was one thing, but dealing with the eye-stinging, cough-inducing nuisance that it truly was... That was another thing.

_Tomorrow. It'll rain after I head out tomorrow._

Eager to duck away from the heat, Jean sped up after coming in sight of the infirmary door. In one month's time he'd be going outside the wall, and would be training for it in the interim.

One of only a frighteningly select few to choose Recon, and this would be Jean's first opportunity to let Marco know.

_Please, Marco. Be awake. Don't be in too much pain. But fuck, that stuff is limited, and they're going to take the drugs away soon, anyway. Please be awake._

Mere days had transpired since finding out that Marco had survived. Opportunities to visit were scarce, leaving little room to satiate his concern for his comrade's well-being. This guy… He'd struck a balance between empathy and discipline, was unafraid to address fear—his and everyone else's— and had pressed Jean to find out just who else he had the capacity to be.

There was inspiration to be found in Marco's death, cementing in him the conviction to commit to the Survey Corps. In finding him alive, he'd vowed to pick up where Marco left off, and to show every one of them just what he was capable of. In the event that he could be properly thanked, Marco would simply have turned the credit back toward Jean.

Stepping back into what he could only describe as a muted, living version of Hell, Jean strained his eyes in search of Marco. Scanning the beds surrounding him, there remained most of the disturbing sights he'd grown accustomed to throughout the past few days.

Somewhere close, the wet slop of a sponge being wrung out. Beds creaking under the weight of soldiers sleeping and writhing off injuries, while still others had become recently unoccupied.

A fresh pair of sheets had been stretched and tucked immaculately around bed number seven, not a trace of Marco in sight.

Pacing the aisle, Jean maintained the semblance of calm while his eyes darted frantically from bed to bed. He found men with bandaged faces and missing limbs, yes, but none of them could have been Marco. Grief and disappointment welled in his throat, as he began searching not for his friend, but for someone who could provide an explanation. Anger mounted inside him at the lack of surprise in discovering Marco was no longer there.

He wanted answers.

Admittedly, Jean understood that he was not owed an explanation. It was a bothersome fact he chose to overlook, as he was now more interested in the behavior of whoever tried to explain Marco's disappearance away. Honest words were spoken rarely, anymore, so he would read into what was presented to him, instead.

The nurse.

_Where is she? Don't waste resources on the ones who won't live, huh? My ass._

Having ventured further into the infirmary than ever before, Jean kept his breathing as shallow as possible. He'd no desire to inhale air so humid it was drenched with the stagnant presence of failing bodies. Arguably worse than just having it end in the bowels of an aberrant, this was most certainly the bleaker side of humanity.

There was no plan of action for this. Stumbling upon Marco, charred literally to the bones, but only seemingly dead—only to have him taken away yet again. Cryptic messages from the only consistently attentive nurse that Jean had seen in the past three days.

As much as he hated it, he needed to consider whether or not there was even time for this. He lowered his eyes one more time as he decided to make haste for the exit, all the while he fought against his mind as it conjured one question after another.

He needed to get out of there, he needed fresh air and sunlight, even some fucking dust might do. He needed to pick a ridiculous fight with Jaeger—which was an entire other problem. But what he really needed was to—

"Jean Kirschstein."

That voice. Halting mid-step, Jean turned around, immediately bringing his spine straight, fist already curled in salute.

"Good evening, Commander Erwin."

Erwin returned the salute whilst striding casually toward the boy. He took his time, looking Jean over, assessing him from every angle before he spoke.

_Putting himself aside for the moment? Good. I've seen you around, Jean Kirschstein. You're not exactly one to sidestep away from giving a piece of your mind._

"Is it?" Erwin asked. "A good afternoon?"

Jean blinked hard, not knowing whether or not it would be a good thing in this moment to demonstrate candor.

"About as good as it will get, sir."

Erwin nodded, unable to find any reason worth giving a smile. "What brings you to the infirmary, Jean?"

"Well, um." It had not been a part of the plan to discuss the current situation out loud. "My friend. But he's not here, anymore."

"You're referring to Marco Bodt?"

Jean's expression grew wide.

"Yes sir."

"I'm sorry to tell you, then. Marco isn't coming back."

"He died?" _Again?_

Initially, the words had lodged in the back of his throat, eventually tumbling out in a broken whisper. He recovered quickly, unwilling to further demonstrate the feeling of helplessness he had conveyed the evening he'd joined the Survey Corps. Why they let a coward like himself stay, Jean did not know.

He was unable to find a single iota of regret as he studied the commander's face. Sadness, maybe. But no regrets. He'd heard years before, back when the idea of even graduating from the 104th seemed like a far-reaching dream, the stories about the tactical shrewdness of Commander Erwin Smith.

The respect he held for his soldiers. The complete devotion he maintained for the mission, knowing full well that those same soldier's lives would be the cost. The fact that Captain Levi would acquiesce to him, and him alone.

It all made for a towering mental image, and the man himself did not disappoint. Considering all that this Levi seemed to be made of, in comparison Commander Erwin was undoubtedly a living legend.

But then, you met him. Albeit, from afar. In the midst of training exercises, almost too busy getting your ass handed to you by a beautiful woman half your size to notice Erwin's imposing figure to the side. His eyes hovering in assessment over top of you. In the event of eye contact, there would be a mad scramble to offer a salute before the commander would be on his way.

For the trainees, particularly those near the top, there would always be the impression that you would never know Erwin Smith as well as he already knew you.

"He died." Jean confirmed, if only to himself, grief thick in his voice. "That's how it goes, Sir. Isn't it?"

"That's how it goes."

At this point, Jean couldn't help himself. He let out a small laugh, arms crossing in front of his chest while he allowed his eyes to finally take an honest look at the infirmary. There had to be more to it. More than this particular floor—no, room—which going by appearances, seemed to carry a monopoly on both bandages and pain.

"At least I don't have to come back to this place."

"You'd want to, though."

"Sir?"

"If you're ever in a position to send good and willing people off to be mutilated, to experience complete terror during the moment of their deaths, then you might feel like coming back here."

"Either I won't live long enough, or I'm pretty sure a guy like me wouldn't be able to hack it."

"Marco thought you'd be able to."

Unable to conceal his look of alarm or interest in the commander's words, Jean's expression was sufficient indication for Erwin to go on.

"We spoke earlier in the day. But he's gone now."

There is no mistaking the finality in the commander's voice. There will be no clarification as to just what being _gone_ really means.

In Jean's chest there is a twisted mess of questions tangled amidst emotions and a sense of duty, and he keeps his mouth shut despite himself. He stares imploringly at the commander, who is both the picture of composure and blatantly displeased with himself.

There is nothing left to say, and Erwin excuses himself toward the door.

Trailing behind, Jean keeps his eye on the commander, asking himself how one manages to balance a sense of care for his men alongside such a frightening level of battlefield ferocity. Making his way back into the sunlight, he remembers what day it is. A week has passed since the colossal titan impeded on the wall, every passing day yielding more bodies both from the rubble and the infirmary.

_It's pyre day._

Watching as Commander Erwin turns left, Jean decides to move right. He heads toward the still early crackling of the blaze, wondering if this will be the time Marco's ashes drift upward from the flames.

* * *

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::waves:: Chapter Two! Not gonna lie, I'm kind of flying by the seat of my pants, here. But I'm enjoying the atmosphere. I hope you like it. Let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

I don't own Shingeki no Kyojin.

* * *

"Unbelievable, dude." He addresses the student next to him, who actively picks up pace in attempt to maintain Jean's annoyingly quick stride. "That other kid was a dick, and I'll even say that for you. But did you really have to go and bite him?"

Emerald eyes flash in defense. Not even he had an answer as to why he'd felt the urge to bit the jerk who had propelled him against the lockers. The blatantly-larger-than-him kid, who apparently couldn't handle a joke, therein leaving Eren and his smart mouth with a padlock grinding into his back. He'd only laid into the guy after noticing his sneakers begin their ascent from the floor.

"I don't know why. He deserved it, though. Didn't he?"

Flooded with sympathy, Jean met him eye-to-eye, all while the pulling on his shirt collar with exaggerated anxiety.

"Yeah, my integrity as a future educator might ride on how I answer that question…"

That was enough for Eren. It was a satisfactory answer from a more than satisfactory teacher's assistant, and it gave the Freshman enough gumption not to waver as they fast approached the principal's office.

"Chill, dude. Keith's not even in there, anymore."

"I'm still about to get into trouble."

"Mm, maybe. Considering he nearly had you airborne, though, I'm pretty sure they're going to let you go. And maybe, you know. Tell you to watch your mouth."

At once able to appreciate the humor, Eren quirks an annoyed eyebrow, clearly unhappy at having the joke directed at himself.

"Fuck you, horseface."

Mock horror washes over Jean's features. Not at the kid's language—it was no secret that Eren Yeager was whip-smart with the mouth of a sailor—but that his tone appeared somewhat friendlier. Maybe even in jest.

"Horseface. Nice. You're on your own now, kid." Jean makes to walk away, laughing as he turns on his heel and heads back in the direction they came.

_Man. Eren fucking Yeager. That kid is gold._

Shards of afternoon sun filter through empty space in the windows. Cracks of the outside world attempt to gain purchase alongside countless posters reminding of club activities, and banners promising the Trost Titans' victory over various rivals throughout the season.

The final bell of the day rang overhead, taking Jean away from the once peaceful hallway and plunging him into an unrelenting sea of teenagers. All these years later, he was a few inches taller, two degrees smarter, and still it was enough to bring Jean to a place of nostalgia.

However, there was solace in having shed various aspects of his teenaged self. More than anything, Jean did not miss the raccoon-eyed adolescent of yesteryear, whose nerves relied heavily on large quantities of coffee and charcoal pencils. There would be no more traipsing around with his hood up, hands buried in pants pockets as he avoided eye-contact with his classmates.

No, these days found Jean sleeping far better than he ever had before. He saved the hoodies for home, looked ahead instead of downward, and occasionally found himself going out of his way to chat up the kids who appeared a bit too tired or isolated from their peers.

But then, there would always be some things that never change. Nor would he want them to. Bordering the crowd, he edges forward, and quickly ducks through a doorway to findreprieve in the same classroom that had offered him constant solace years before.

"Hey, Mr. Smith."

"Jean, outside of class hours you call me Erwin now, or I'll make sure you fail your internship." The voice was level, belonging to a man whose blond hair and sweater vest appeared largely out of place on his broad, Survey Corps-worthy frame. Presently, his impressive height was lending itself to writing the next day's lesson plan across the board.

"Okay, Mr. Smith." The words lilted playfully off of Jean's a handful of paperwork, he settled into the same desk that for four years he'd ritualistically claim at the start of a new semester. A bit tighter than he remembered, but the view remained familiar and comfortable.

"How'd it go with Eren?"

"He cooled down quick enough. I don't think the thing with Shadis was his temper so much as it was reactionary. He's not going to get in too much trouble, is he?"

"I doubt it."

What is initially a discussion over a bratty student soon falls away to idle chatter, before the conversation drops off altogether. The two men comfortably partake in the quiet as Erwin tends to routine matters of the classroom. In between papers, Jean observes the years-old habits of the man who got him through high school, and likewise inspired him to become a teacher.

Nearly half a semester has passed since the beginning of his internship, making it nearly a decade and one quarter that Erwin Smith's classroom has staved off any significant change. At least from what Jean can tell. What's more, is that Jean likes it that way, as it allows him a sense of nostalgia on top of a feeling of having come full circle. To be back here as he is carries a notion of having made it through, and of having done something right with himself.

Leaning forward, he allows himself to go on autopilot, an answer key in one hand and red pen in the other. Mark after mark appears on some poor student's paper, and the test positively bleeds. The ink smudges across the side of Jean's hand, and he smiles while remembering a recent conversation.

_"Most teachers are using blue now." Erwin had told him. "Apparently someone up the ladder thinks it'll be better on kids' self-esteem if they're graded in a less intimidating color."_

_Jean had scoffed in response. "What? So they can easily transition into all the blue pens waiting for them in college? So they can easily spot it in their bank account if they spend too much on beer and go into the blue? Right. I'm using red."_

_"Look at you, Kirschstein." He'd laughed. "Don't even have a job yet and you're already a hardass."_

Erwin's tone had been proud and affectionate, and he knew right then that he cared only to encourage his grad assistant to keep on with the red pen.

And so they worked, each entrenched in their own half of a new old afterschool routine, presumably until the point where afternoon prepares for its segue into evening. Erwin steals glances toward the young man whose taken to his former desk, about to ask him why he insists on staying on until nearly five o'clock each day, but is instead interrupted by a light knock on the always open door.

"Come on in, Marco."

"Hey, Mr. Smith."

"Erwin."

"Alright, Mr. Smith."

Entering the room, his bright smile is largely in contrast to the obnoxious scoffing that can be heard somewhere on the other side of the room.

"What the hell is it with you two? Dammit, Marco, you even work here."

"It's only been a year." Marco quips while pointing an accusing finger toward Jean. "If anyone, he's the one who's earned the right to call you Erwin. He's known you for a million years."

"Uh huh." Erwin concedes. "What can I do you for?"

"I just thought you'd be interested to know things went with Eren Yeager."

"I personally gave Zackly my account of things. Is he not happy enough with my word?"

"No, no." Marco assures. "As far as the incident today, most of the brunt fell onto the other kid. The problem is that Eren pretty much refused to talk either to Mr. Zackly or myself."

Raising an eyebrow, Erwin gives a thoughtful sigh that more closely resembles a grunt. "That's a surprise. I wouldn't call him talkative, but he's generally articulate in my class."

Marco hands Erwin a set of papers, its contents describing Eren as a B student, who thus far has made it through his education without any academic fails or personal incidents.

"—mother's a homemaker, father is a doctor. Moved from Shiganshina over summer. No extracurriculars, but has expressed an interest in Sina Military Academy."

It's this last point that catches Jean's attention, and he makes a mental note to see what he can do to gain Eren some favor.

"Actually," Marco suggests, "I had an idea on how to help Eren. If someone would be up to it. Someone Eren relates to…"

Per Marco's insinuation, all eyes turn toward Jean, who begins to straighten in his chair.

"You don't mean me."

"Why not?" Erwin asks. "You turned out alright. Kind of cute, actually. One little smartass leading another."

"Dude."

"Jean."

And there it is. His name on Marco's lips, and it's an automatic rerouting of Jean's attention. Cute, adorable, fucking handsome as can be, Marco. Kind, confident, a polyglot of all worthwhile senses of humor and emotion.

Three months they've known each other, and Jean has found ample time to observe Marco in action. In his element, he's an ideal listener, and an encourager of hard work and ambition. He has the ability to deliver no-nonsense topics with a certain grace, of which the previous guidance counselor had been painfully lacking. In the event that Marco finds himself in over his head, Jean notices, he remains wholly determined and unflappable.

In the three months that Jean has known Marco, they've managed to make a successful transition away from acquaintanceship, and now rest on the cusp of a realm wherein they can be called friends.

Not once in this entire time has Marco ever asked Jean for a single thing. Looking to him now, it's clear that Marco is preparing to sell him on some idea or another, and in his own mind, it is clear to Jean that he has zero intention of telling him no. Considering that Jean is by no means an inconspicuous man, he is forced to ask himself whether or not Marco knows it.

"Outside of smart-aleck remarks, I couldn't get a word out of him."

"Sounds about right."

"But he likes you." Marco continues. "I could hear the two of you talking when you passed by my office, and he had no reservations whatsoever speaking to you."

Jean crosses his arms defensively, knowing full well that he was in from the moment Marco uttered his name. Unwilling to concede without a fight, he motions with one hand for Marco to go on, and fights back a smile as all-too-invested, he grabs a chair.

"You're good with him. Mainly, I think, because you don't try to change his demeanor. Eren finds you approachable, and he probably likes that you're witty, smart, and not a pushover."

"Actually," Erwin corrects, "He's a total pushover."

"Nah." Marco smiles gently. "Jean has an attitude, but puts others before himself. It's not the same, and Eren knows it. I think we should capitalize on that."

_Wait, what? What does that even mean? But he thinks I'm smart? Witty?_

"Fine. What are you suggesting?"

Marco shrugs. "Two days a week after school? You're here anyway, right?"

"Erwin's got stuff for me to do."

"No I don't. I won't say you're not helpful, but you think up half the stuff you do around here." Erwin directs his attention toward Marco, making his intentions to lock up clear as he redirects various paperwork and folders into an old leather messenger bag. "Tuesdays and Thursdays. He'll do it."

Jean huffs in protest, adding an obnoxious red doodle onto the last of the graded papers in front of him.

"Thanks a lot, Mr. Smith."

"For padding your resume? You're welcome. Use the classroom, and I'll stay out of your hair. It'd probably be good for the department chair to use his office, anyway."

Jean glances between the two them. Erwin plasters on a smirk while Marco wears a triumphant grin.

"Thanks, Jean."

Avoiding eye contact, he gathers the paperwork and makes his way toward Erwin's desk.

"Don't mention it."

Erwin makes for the door, intent on making it out of the building before sundown. Jean makes to follow, and stops only after finding that Marco is held up by a fixture dominating the wall space behind Erwin's desk.

Nudging an elbow into Jean's ribs, Erwin lets him know the room is already locked whenever he decides to leave, then slips out the door.

With the absence of their voices comes a near obtrusive silence, and Jean moves idly, discreetly keeping his eyes on Marco. It's a new angle from which to view him, as he's given the entirety of his attention to the painting on the wall. Jean likes seeing him like this; where the smile gets put away and all that is left is an expression of unreadable calm upon Marco's face.

_Marco outside of his natural habitat… Where the room is calm and no one is asking for advice or wanting to know if their class can get an extension on its career day applications. Just standing there, thinking. I wonder what he's thinking._

_Chinos and a polo should never look this good. That's what I think. I wonder—_

"What'cha doing, Jean?"

_Shit._ "Um, nothing. I'm just—wait. I'm practically standing behind you."

True enough, Jean is situated to Marco's left, in a place that could generally be assumed to lie outside of his line of vision.

Alas, Marco turns to face him, amusement flashing across his face as he brings a finger to rest near his right eye.

"I'm blind in one eye. It makes for pretty awesome peripheral vision in the other."

"Dude, seriously? How'd that happen?"

Marco returns to the painting, and Jean brings himself to stand toward his right.

_Who's looking at who now, Buddy?_

The move is not without notice, but Marco chooses to let it slide.

"No good reason. I was born with it. Kind of boring." His words trail off as he continues to direct the bulk of his attention, much to Jean's surprise, to the artwork on the wall.

It's a dominant piece; nearly five feet tall on hand-stretched canvas. The warm palette is anything but as it details waning life and viscera from every possible angle. At the forefront a man charges valiantly forward, his sword drawn in one hand while the stump from a recently lost arm bleeds over top his horse. A silent battle cry twists away any chance of recognition, and the man, if he were ever real, is lost to history.

"So what do you think of that?"

His mouth moves, but is hesitant to form words, and instead he looks over to Jean.

"How did you even come up with this?"

The instantaneous recognition causes Jean's brows to arc, but he's simply met with a look that insists he not insult Marco's intelligence.

"Um, well. I didn't sleep well as a kid. Like at all. At some point I started drawing whatever was bothering me, instead."

"And that worked?"

"Eventually, yeah."

"So, this painting. It's your nightmare?"

The question elicits nervous laughter, as Marco's assessment hits rather close to home.

"In terms of finishing it for the senior art auction, yeah. This one was a nightmare."

"Oh! So Erwin actually bought this."

"Yep. He spent four years trying to get me into an art class, and I finally agreed to one at the very end of high school."

"Let me get this straight. You've only taken one art class, and it wasn't to develop skill, but to appease a teacher?"

"Well, when you put it that way…"

"Amazing."

Typically, Jean is able to handle a compliment, especially when they come few and far between. Coming from Marco, however, it's nearly too much.

"Thanks, man."

"No, Jean. Seriously. I mean, it's kind of terrifying, but amazing no less. Do you have anything else?"

"Not really. There isn't much left."

The phrasing of Jean's words sparks clear interest within Marco, and he's left asking himself whether or not it's worth the investment to bring any of it up. It's difficult to ignore Marco's demonstration of genuine interest, and it causes Jean to throw defense and reason to the wind.

"Um, I don't keep them. Once I finish a sketchbook I burn it."

He waits for the inevitable. A judgmental look or unbelieving words. The kind where he's deemed crazy for burning his art at all, and moreso for not offering an explanation.

He waits, but it doesn't come. What he gets instead is confirmation for his actions.

"That makes sense. Who wants to remember nightmares, right?"

"Pretty much."

"Even now?"

"Not so much. I haven't had to draw any of that for a long time." Images replay through Jean's mind, and he slowly shakes his head, drawing out his words. "A long time."

Marco has since abandoned Erwin's painting, and now gives all of his attention to Jean.

"Dude, you look like you're in student-head-shrinking mode."

"No! Sorry. Really, I'm not. Also, I'm not licensed for that."

The seriousness with which he answers is downright precious, and Jean laughs.

_What a dork._ "You're fine."

"Do you still paint? Or draw?"

"Occasionally. I don't keep a sketchbook right now if that's what you mean."

Truth be told, Marco himself is not entirely sure what he means, but keeps the questions coming as he hitches a thumb toward the painting on the wall.

"So that one's not a bad dream?"

"Nope. Just a history geek and his fingerpaints."

Marco laughs, the sound of it leaving Jean's mind looking for more ways in which to illicit it again. For now, he saves the endeavor for later. He's looking to dodge anymore questions surrounding the motivation for his artwork, and does his best not to blatantly glance toward the door. It's a conflicting feeling, as he admits to himself that if anyone, it is Marco he'd willingly peel these layers away for.

Alas, this is not that day, and he finds himself voluntarily instigating an awkward silence in the name of getting away. He refrains from words, keeping his smile contrite as he begins to edge one foot closer to the door. He hopes for Marco to catch on, and thankfully he does, though not without sacrificing the atmosphere.

Faint color highlights Marco's features, who has become apologetic. "I'm sorry. I'm prying too far into it. That's your business."

The sudden change in demeanor smashes into Jean's conscience with full force. It is a display he never would have thought could be, and Jean watches Marco falter, his pace quickened as he heads for the door. At this point, it is the worst thing this side of first-world problems that Jean believes he has ever seen.

Hoping to save each of them some face, he catches Marco by the shoulder.

"No, dude. Don't worry about it. Maybe some other time."

Marco studies him momentarily. If he's learned anything about Jean, it's that he's wont to speak his mind. In the event of him keeping his mouth shut, he cannot help but wear it all across his sleeve, anyway. It's a facet Marco finds both satisfying and reassuring, and in this moment it allows his nerves to meld back into complacency as he steps over the threshold.

They walk toward the front of the school quietly. Orange sunlight has begun to set in, signaling the impending evening glow.

At this, Jean guides his attention to the floor, eyeing their merging shadows. He makes a point to remain on Marco's right side, and does not bother admonishing the urge to smile.

.

Everywhere they turn blood, debris, and heat surround them. All around them, screams halt in midair.

His heart pounds at his temples, and he dares to glance from one side to the other, knowing all too well there is not enough time. It's impossible to gauge in which instance this massive, certain death will strike without warning.

There is a sudden breeze to his right, as one comrade descends into the abyss upon hearing the cries of a child. At this point, there is no mission beyond decimating the enemy hoard.

A new plan immediately forms in his head. Turning to inform the man to his left, his eyes focus just in time to helplessly watch as an enormous hand liquefies his comrade against a wall. There is no time to think, and he's at a loss for what to do, but gives in to his body's innate urge to hook the bastard and pull upward.

He cuts through impossible flesh before careening through a closed window.

In the following seconds Jean is jolted upright in bed, mindlessly checking for blood on his face and glass in his hair. In the seconds before he's back to full consciousness, he cannot help but feel that he's been here before.

_Fuck._

* * *

So, I know I said this was going to be a four-part thing. But you know? At first I also said it was a oneshot and look at how that turned out!

Well, um... Welcome to my AU? :) Let me know what you think!


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